


Why Do I  See You

by Oh_Bother



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Coping with Death, Depression, F/F, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Search for Healing, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27706978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_Bother/pseuds/Oh_Bother
Summary: Dealing with death is tough. Dealing with seeing your dead best friend, even tougher.
Relationships: Maxine "Max" Caulfield & Chloe Price
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Why Do I  See You

October 18 

Most people have guilty consciences their whole lives. A relationship they ruined, someone they abandoned, or someone they ... killed. It haunts them for the rest of their sorry lives. Some are driven insane, while some eventually find ways to deal with it. Well, none of these people have had the misfortune of the person they killed following them around. 

I’ve seen her.

As bright and beautiful as the setting sun outside my window, exactly like when she was murdered in the Blackwell girls’ bathroom.

No difference from how she looked during the _Week that Never Was_.

Well, except for the gaping bullet hole in her stomach. 

Thanks, Death. 

Might as well have slapped a post-it note to her head saying, “I was shot and killed and it’s Max’s fault.”

Can’t say I needed the visual reminder. I’ll be seeing her in my dreams ‘til the day I die.

Maybe I’m hallucinating? Am I going insane? 

Can I stop being fucked over for one day?

One motherfucking day? 

Oh. Hi, Chloe. 

Wait. 

The journal falls out of my grasp as I jump to the other side of the bed, my hands shaking uncontrollably as my dead friend, and maybe the love of my life, stares expressionlessly at me. 

“What do you want, Chloe?” I ask as I try to calm down my hands to no avail.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even blink. 

I take the short pause to get off my bed, pick up my journal, and set it on the nightstand. I back away as far as my couch and ask again, 

“What do you want? Hello? Anyone there?” 

In response she blinks. 

Fuck me.

Can she even understand me? 

Did dying reset her language to like Chinese or something? 

No, Max, this isn’t the language select screen of a video game. Get your head out of your ass and think of something. 

And can my hands stop shaking? You’re really not helping. 

Why am I having trouble breathing? This isn’t supposed to be happening again. I’d gotten over this. This was all supposed to be over, wasn’t it? Can I just be left alone to suffer in peace without you showing up and fucking haunting me?! 

I realize I’ve been screaming the last few sentences. I catch myself before I start having people knocking on doors and asking me if everything’s all right. 

I had enough of that the week after her death.

Don’t need it again. 

Christ, what do I do, what do I do?

“Max.” 

I pause for a second, my hands clutched around my head as if my body was preparing for the occasional mental breakdown. 

“Max.” 

I turn around towards the source of my name. Chloe hasn’t moved from her perch on my drawer. She continues to stare at me, unblinking, for now. And then she says it again. 

“Max.” 

It sounds identical to when Chloe called my name, many, many times during our nonexistent week. So short, so sweet. And definitely not what I needed to hear. 

Gazing into her sparkling sapphire eyes, so utterly innocent despite the person who once possessed them, makes me do something people often do when they’ve buried a loved one a week ago. My legs give away, and I fall back onto the couch and weep. 

I don’t remember how long I spent on the couch; I was busy trying my best not to wail. Just having a wonderful time with my face pressed into the soft fabric with my eyes clenched as tight as can be, and still pouring like two little faucets. 

I’m gonna have to clean that up later. 

The enormous wet spot on the couch looks interesting from an angle, and so does the crude impression of my face. I’d take a photo if the thought of picking up a camera didn’t make me want to … whatever. 

I get up from the couch and check the room for my partner in crime. She moved to my bed. Perfect. 

Do ghosts get uncomfortable?

And she’s still staring at me. 

“Can you please say something? And not my name because that isn’t helping, as you can see.” 

I wave my hand at the couch, and then point at my face with both index fingers. 

Nothing. Nice. 

It’s dark outside. It was like 8 or 9 in the evening when I was writing in my journal, so I’ve been out for at least an hour. It seems I fell asleep in my own tears. Hah. 

Oh well, might as well get to doing my homework. My excusal from it ends today, so dead best friend or not, I have responsibilities. I try my best to ignore Chloe as I walk to my desk and sit down, pull my Chem textbook out, and am about to start remembering what a catalyst does when I hear, 

“Sorry.” 

Yeah no prob-wait.

I spin around and look at the blue-haired ghost, and her expression is very different from when I last looked at her. A frown, tinged with those familiar strains, like someone at the end of their string. Like there’s nothing left. She looks so sad.

Chloe had only made a face like that a few times before. Well, only once, if you count real time. 

I know I should be replying, I should be comforting her, but I have no clue how. 

I get up from my chair and walk over to my bed, and sit down next to Chloe, whose wiry frame is partially bent over now, looking more and more like her after we found … no, not now. 

After staring at her for a few moments, I reach out to put my hand on her shoulder, but it passes right through. 

Oh right. Ghost. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

It all feels so weird. I had been hoping, by some impossible chance, that this was my Chloe. That this wasn’t just a ghost, spirit, or some desperate hallucination. I had hoped that Chloe would jump off the drawer, or jump off the bed, and yell “Just kidding!” And then we’d laugh, hug, maybe even kiss. But she’s gone. She’s gone, and she isn’t coming back. I’ll never hold her in my arms again. 

I would’ve started crying again if I could even muster up the tears. So I just heave like I’m about to puke, shaking as my fucking messed up head desperately tries to find a way for me to deal with this shit, and spits error codes into my subconsciousness. 

I lift my hand up to touch Chloe’s cheek, or at least try to. I know it’s pointless, but I can’t help it. I want to touch her skin, even though every millimeter my finger moves proves how stupidly impossible that is, and will always be. As I lightly paw at the nonexistent curve of her face, I notice something as it passes my hand. 

A tear. One, two, three, four, they keep rolling down her face, off her chin, and staining her torn jeans. I put my hand under the little waterfall, but the drops pass through too. Of course they do.

I sit there confused, and scared, because I don’t even know if she can hear, see, or even feel me.

And then I hear her say more words at once than she’s said for the entire day.

“I’m so sorry, Max.” 

I must answer this time, even if it’s a dream, even if I’m imagining it, I must answer her. 

“I’m sorry too, Chloe,” leave my lips with a shudder that shakes me all the way down to the dead butterflies in my stomach. 

Which escape through my eyes in twin waterfalls.

And flutter out my window as two girls, one living and one dead, beg forgiveness from each other, with no one but the waking stars as witnesses. 

I wake up cold. Miserably cold, with a dry, painful feeling in my throat that usually comes when it’s October in Oregon and you leave the window open at night. At least all the annoying insects have died off so I don’t have to worry about that. Well, almost all of them. 

It looks like I fell asleep perpendicular to my bed, with my head resting against the photo wall. As I try to get up, the uncomfortable position I slept in makes itself known as pain stabs into the back of my neck, and my morning yawn is sharply cut off. 

Yeah, I’m definitely awake now. 

I spend a few moments bent over forwards in the sitting position, massaging my neck, as I slowly try to straighten it, and eventually do, though it hurts like a bitch. 

Well, at least I won’t have to bother with coffee. Might snag an Advil later, if this doesn’t stop soon. 

Groaning, I look around the room, trying to blink the remaining sleep out of my eyes while searching for something. I guess I don’t find it, cause nothing clicks. Looking at the mirror by the door, I see how disheveled I look, having fallen asleep with my day clothes on. Not the first time I’d fallen asleep like that, even in the past two weeks, after … shit. 

Chloe … I regret not talking to her so much. I should’ve called her the minute I came back. I didn’t even tell her a single thing before she got shot and died right there on that dingy bathroom floor, blood staining that stupid skull shirt she had. 

I couldn’t even move as my ears rang from that gunshot, and the subsequent breakdown from Nathan. I was only found a couple minutes later as police were taping off everything. I had to walk past a single stretcher with a black bag, and I don’t remember much else. All I knew was I lost her, forever. She was so close to me for so many years, and I lost her. And I’d never see her again. 

I wipe the gathered wetness out of my eyes and blow my nose, both from the resurfaced memories and the morning chill. I walk around the room, getting my bearings, awkwardly turning my head from left to right to get my stinging neck adjusted to being awake. Not like either of us liked being awake. 

I look at Lisa, who appears healthy, which is both surprising and unsurprising, given I have no clue how I’ve been able to water her consistently, but at least I kept her from dying. I don’t have to water Lisa for another day, so I stare at her, momentarily enthralled in her simplicity. 

Maybe I could draw her, for my journal. And I should probably start today’s entry as well.

I walk up to the nightstand, picking up that ring-bound notebook covered in stickers, flipping to the last page for today’s entry. I don’t get that far. 

Holy shit. 

Normally a person should feel surprised about something they forgot, like “Oh, I forgot the keys! That’s bad, I should go back and get them!” I’m not surprised. As everything from that week slams back into place in my head, all I feel is abject horror, and an overwhelming disgust pointed right back at me. 

How dare you? How dare you forget about something like that? You had a whole week with Chloe, and you wake up a week after her funeral with just no memory of it? You don’t deserve to forget that, and you know it. You deserve to hear that gunshot, over and over again, until the day you die, knowing that you went back and let her get killed. That whole week happened and you went back like nothing changed and killed her. Not Nathan. You. 

I remember seeing Chloe yesterday. I remember crying on my couch as my eyes flick to the half-dried wet spot. I remember trying to desperately comfort her, and I remember the words she said. Did I seriously think that was all a dream, to just forget as I wake up the next day? 

And did my brain just seriously try to stuff my memories of that week and just toss them out like some kind of trash? 

But … was that … Chloe … real? Ghosts aren’t real, right? Ghosts don’t just … show up on your drawer, right? Ghosts don’t say people’s names, right? Ghosts don’t cry, right? 

She could see me. 

She begged for my forgiveness. I can’t even tell why. I’m the one responsible for her life going to hell, I’m the one who brought the storm, I’m the one who LET HER DIE!!! 

All my conversations with the school shrink, all the coping methods I was taught, all of them seem worthless, pointless in this time-bending situation I’m trapped in. They don’t work on someone like me. A monster.

Why didn’t she blame me? Why? She could have just screamed “Murderer!” or something; that’s how ghosts work, right? Don’t they haunt you by making you remember the horrible stuff you did? Even though most of the atrocities I committed never existed, but they’re there, in my head, no matter how hard my brain could try to forget them. 

I clutch my head with both hands as the noise intensifies. 

Yeah, I’m going insane. Definitely. 

No, you’re just traumatized. That’s what everyone says. 

As I’m fighting a civil war in my head, the pain that was originally focused on the back of my neck is replaced, or dwarfed, by a terrifyingly potent feeling in my skull. I’m suddenly reeling from the agony searing itself into my head. White lights begin to flash across my vision as I try to not pass out immediately, and I feel nauseous. Very, very nauseous.

I need to get to the bathroom. Quick. 

I push myself off the bed, the room spinning around me, and stumble towards the door, slamming into my dresser before I reach it. I fumble the handle until I fall into the hallway, almost collapsing from the lack of support. I lean on the wall as I slowly make my way past Kate’s door. 

I reach the bathroom door, push it open, and make my way to one of the stalls, drop in front of an open toilet, and just heave. I can’t even tell what comes out. Doesn’t even matter. Not much for me to throw up, anyway. 

After I’m done, I pause for a few moments, the pain and the noise a bit quieter now.

Perfect fucking start, Max. 

I spend a few minutes in front of the toilet, gathering strength to reach a hand up and flush it. 

There goes my latest meal, or what counts as one for me these days. My head is still killing me, but at least I don’t have while lights flashing across my vision anymore. 

My mind briefly flits to another source of flashing while lights, but I close it off, for now.

Definitely not opening that package today. 

I get up and walk to a sink, and pitifully attempt to make myself look presentable, though I sincerely doubt cold water can do anything for me other than wash off any remaining drowsiness or droplets of vomit clinging to my mouth.  
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, at my messy hair, at my mildly sunken cheeks, at my red eyes and the dark circles beneath them, at the infant of a worry line on my brow. 

I find it hard to gaze into a mirror and see Max, the aspiring student at Blackwell, or Max, the talented photographer, or Max, the shy, sweet girl. All I can see is Max, the psychotic monster who let her friend get shot and did nothing about it. 

No, just shut up for a second! This is why I’m here! In the bathroom, puking holes in the toilet.

I splash some more water in my face, for all the good it will do, and I hear a knock on the door. 

Guess there’s some early risers here after all. 

“Give me a minute!” I yell as I desperately try to fix my hair so I seem a bit less like a corpse than I already do. Eh. Pointless. 

I pull the door open to reveal probably the sweetest person I’ve ever known, or in other words, Kate Marsh, looking back at me. I was really worried about her before everything happened, but with Chloe getting shot, and Jefferson being ratted on by Nathan, she got the help she needed. I am so happy she did, I couldn’t stand to see anything like … _that_ … happen again. 

“Max, are you okay?” 

Her gentle voice shakes me out of my thoughts. I meet her eyes and see genuine worry, something I haven’t seen much of, even under these unusual circumstances. 

“No, I’m fine, just getting ready for the day,” I blurt out before even realizing how stupid that sounds.

“Really? Cause first of all, it’s a Saturday, and second of all, you look like you just died and came back to life.” 

Ouch, Kate. 

“What else am I supposed to say? No, I’m not okay. Not sure if I ever will be, either.” 

Kate reacts to those words in a way I didn’t expect, her face darkening as if she sees something beyond my messed up features. Cause up to this point, most people tried to appear as soft and as accommodating as possible, their faces devoid of any kind of harshness or anger, unless the topic of the conversation was Nathan, or Jefferson. I’d gotten used to simply toning out the repetitive sorriness these people felt for me. Kate’s face didn't hide anything. If only I could understand what that anything was. 

“It’s just, you remind me of myself, two weeks ago. Down, disorganized, and desperately trying to seem ok, just so people would stop asking questions. I pray to God for you not to feel anything like I felt during those days. You’re my best friend, and it hurts me to see you like this. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, just tell me, okay?” She says this with the most heart wrenching tone, like she’s almost crying. 

Okay, first of all, Kate, I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there for you enough those days. 

Second of all, fuck that hurts. 

I can’t even respond. I can’t force my stupid tongue to move. I don’t know why. Technically, on the base level, she’s saying the same thing as everyone else. Then why is it so hard to open my mouth and give the same answer? 

Before I realize why, a tear rolls down my cheeks. Then a second, a third, and I find myself crying on Kate’s shoulder. She pats my head as I cry into her shirt, saying soft little things like, “I’m here, Max,” and “It’s gonna be alright.” Which under any other circumstance would put me on the defensive after this week. But I just melt into her embrace. 

This makes no sense. Why does this hurt so much? Why? 

Of course it makes sense. 

This is your punishment. 

You sat there and let her die. 

Monster.

I run out of tears again, and look up at Kate, for … something. Her words did something, and I’ve yet to decide whether that is good or bad. I extricate myself from Kate’s shirt, wiping my eyes as she looks at me with those sorrowful dark pearls for eyes. I try to choose what to say, but come up with nothing, nothing coherent at least. After a few moments I manage to mutter, 

“Th … thanks. I guess I needed that. Sorry about your shirt, though.” I look morosely at the second thing I had managed to cry all over in the past 12 hours. 

She glanced down, blinking once before running her hand over the stains a few times and looking up at me with another of her patented sad smiles. 

Well at least the sad one isn’t her this time.

Shut it. 

Kate replies, shaking her head, “It’s fine. I’m just happy I helped somehow. I’ll always be there for you, just like you were for me.”

You don’t know half of it.

I, unable to find more fitting words for this angel, nod quietly and walk past her back to my room, with Kate telling me to call her if I needed to talk. I hoped her care wasn’t just another worrying face.

Well that’s cruel, even for you, Max. 

Does anyone get to care about you anymore? Anyone alive, that is?

Shut. It.

I go back into my room, checking for dead punks before slumping onto the couch, barely avoiding my semi-dried faceprint. I sigh, leaning back against the cushions, staring at the blank, white ceiling. I try to bring myself to ponder all this bullshit going on, but considering what sticking my head into that psychological tornado did to me, I’d prefer not to. It hurts a little bit less. 

Tornado. Heh. Very funny. Almost too funny. 

After a few minutes of tortured relaxation, I get up to change into clothes that haven’t been slept in, although at this point it feels like I’m just putting on another skin.

I leave my room, absentmindedly staring at the worthless fliers, and the meaningless writings on those little whiteboards by each door as I walk down that boring hallway.

In the end, there’s only three types of people. The living, the dead, and the unfortunate fucks caught in between.

As I walk out of the dorm, I can’t help but notice posters strewn about, with all their desperate messages like “Down with the Vortex Club” and “Gun Control” and “Never Forget Chloe” … fuck.

It’s your fault. You’re not walking away from this.

My mind begins to sink into its own depths, as my legs begin to move on their own. It feels oddly soft in some way, comforting, if I even deserved that. 

As my legs lead me into Arcadia Bay, I find myself passing places that each light a candle of memory in my head. 

The movie theater me and Chloe went to see Shrek when it came out. We were laughing so hard that night. 

The crafts store we always used to visit for projects. I clearly remember an image of Chloe covered in glitter. 

The library, where we used to beg the poor old librarian to find us books on pirates, and the two of us running behind her like two ducklings.

The Two Whales Diner. We spent so much time there. I briefly consider going in, but ultimately my feet carry me onwards. Not much of a loss either, last time I went in there was … eventful to say the least. 

And so many more places that meant the world to me and Chloe, I just pass by them, each like a turning page, never to be flipped back. 

Hard to do when the book is in shreds.

I eventually find myself at the beach, thankfully dead whale-less and tornado-less. I sit down at the bench, watching the sun as it sets.  
Wow, that was a lot of time. Did I even … eat?

A passive-aggressive growling of my stomach answers that question. I ignore it as the flaming orb paints the ocean yellow, slowly sinking beyond the horizon. It’s honestly beautiful, every time I get to see it. 

“The golden hour, right?” 

I nod, taking a few seconds to realize that that was actually someone speaking. I sharply turn, and there she is. Just like last evening. Only talking in full sentences now, it seems. My breath sharply catches as I slide down the bench, away from her.

Chloe’s brow furrows as she speaks again, “You alright there, Max? Was I that wrong, or did I just scare you?” She slightly smirks at her own humor. 

Trying to get enough oxygen into my lungs, I stammer, “You’re … you’re … d-dead.”

The blue-haired punk tilts her head back in confusion then says, “Duh. Of course I’m dead, dummy. How’d you explain this then?” She says as she points at the bullet hole in her stomach. I shudder as I look at that cursed wound, the shot that started this hell.

Chloe reassures me, completely oblivious, “Don’t worry, I bled out in a few minutes, so it’s not like I suffered. Well it did hurt, a bit. But I’m still here, even though I have no clue why. Hey, you ok, Maxter? Max?” 

I shake my head as tears begin to form in my eyes, and I lean back against the bench, as a tortured sob escapes my lips. And then a second, and a third, and I’m lost in a stream of tears and half-breaths. 

I look between sobs to see Chloe scooching closer to me. I wave for her to stay away, but she continues ‘til she’s right next to me. 

It’s not like I could stop her or anything. 

“It’s my fault!” I yell into her face. 

Chloe stops abruptly, before quickly answering, “Of course it’s not your fault. Nathan shot me, remember? Not you. I didn’t even know you were back until I … died.”

She’s so clueless it’s almost funny. 

Coughing slightly, thankfully not sobbing anymore, I reply, “You wouldn’t understand.” 

The blue-haired punk assumes a deadpan look. “Seriously, Max? You’re gonna tell the dead girl, who is still in the realm of the living and able to talk to you, that she wouldn’t understand? Give me a break.”

Wiping my eyes with a sleeve, I reply, “I’m not kidding, Chloe. I’ll tell you later, just not right now. It hurts too much, I’m sorry.” 

Her face reveals a crease of worry, Chloe nods, getting up and saying, “Gotcha, Max. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there. I mean, you do seem to be the only person capable of seeing, hearing, and talking to me, so I guess I’m stuck with you.” The dead girl chuckles slightly before continuing, “I’m always here, Max, don’t you worry. As long as you never forget me.” She says before walking away, to hell knows where. 

Never forget me.

Where and when did I hear that before? 

Oh. 

I look over to where Chloe just was, only to see the surprising lack of blue-haired dead punks. 

I mean, she is a ghost. I think.

I get up, wiping my eyes to remove any remaining tears, but personally, it’s more or less a lost cause. I look like shit all the time. Always have, always will. 

As the sun still has yet to fully set, there is still one more place I can go. One not too far. 

My mind and body working in tandem for the first time today, I set off towards my final destination, with the darkening sky as my only witness. 

I tuck my hands into my jean pockets as the October chill begins to permeate the air, staring at the ground as I retrace the steps I’ve walked thousands of times before. Eventually, I am there.  
44 Cedar Avenue. 

With that same unfinished coat of paint, and those two awkwardly planted bushes in the front yard. 

I tentatively walk up those gray steps, and approach the door. It’s almost funny, how many times I’d come here, with emotions ranging from enthusiasm to anticipation, excitement to sheer joy. 

Even when I came here with Chloe, during that week, I was still riding that wonderful high of “oh-my-god-I-saved-Chloe-and-she’s-changed-so-much-and-she’s-kind-of-hot...”

I shake my head, dispelling those hopeless thoughts. They were never real, and they never will be. 

I knock on the door, kind of hoping no one answers, because part of me really doesn’t want to go in there. But I need to. I can’t really tell why I feel this, but I can’t walk away. 

After a minute, and the solid thumping of what I can only assume are work shoes, the door opens to reveal the person I once hated, but then felt kind of bad for, then felt even more bad for after … letting his step-daughter die. Not that he’d know that. No one should. 

David Madsen stares at me with a pained look that can only be found on a parent who’s had to bury their child. He looks me up and down for a few moments then asks, “What can I do for you, Max?” 

I quickly answer, hoping to not annoy him much, saying, “I just wanted to stop by, see how you were doing.” 

He blinks once before shrugging and replying, “I think you know how we’ve been doing Max, and I don’t have the heart to say it.” 

I wince, mostly at my own stupidity for what I just said, saying, 

“Could I see her room? I’ve been thinking about her a lot, and I just needed to make sure of something. You don’t mind, right?”

David nods. “I guess. You’ve probably been there hundreds of times before, so why not one more? Just be careful going up, Joyce is … sleeping.” 

He stands aside, to let me into the house. 

I walk in, and cast a worried eye down the hallway. The place doesn’t seem to have changed much since Chloe died, but it feels heavy. 

Of course it does. _  
_I walk up the stairs, being careful to avoid the creaky spots, or at least the creaky spots I remembered. I look towards Joyce’s room, wondering how she is, but I already know the answer.

Horrible. 

And it’s all your fault.

I stand in front of the door, the “Wrong Way” sign still there, thankfully. Though I doubt it’ll be there for long. Or maybe it will.

I push it open, to see Chloe’s room. Exactly how it was, minus some … things. It seems Joyce and David attempted to keep the room as it was, and from the cried on beanie lying on the bed, it definitely looks like they intend to keep it that way, whether it be to remember her, or to torture themselves, or both, I can hardly tell. 

Can you imagine it? Those poor people are gonna suffer until the day they die because you killed their daughter. You did. 

Shut. The. Fuck. Up. 

There’s something here I remember Chloe telling me about during that week, now I just need to find it. I hope the Madsens haven’t found it already, because there’s something I need to do. After a bit of unceremonious rifling through Chloe’s shelves, I find what I need: a razor. It looks a bit worn, but it should do the trick.  
After cleaning it with a wet wipe; I always keep one in my bag. I make sure Chloe’s door is closed, and take off my jacket, hanging it on Chloe’s chair. I then pull back my t-shirt sleeve, exposing my upper right arm. The perfect spot. I raise the razor and begin. 

The first cut, straight down, goes with little resistance. 

What are you doing?

The second cut, going up and to the right, makes me wince, but I don’t care. 

What purpose does this have?

The third cut, much like the first, doesn’t annoy me much, and so I lift my right arm up higher before my next incision. 

To you? To anyone? What are you trying to achieve?

The fourth cut, a small horizontal line, looks almost cute if it wasn’t carved into my arm. 

Writing? With a knife? You really are dark, you know. 

The fifth cut, almost a full circle, drawing a sharp breath from me, before a second pause as blood begins to ooze from my cuts. 

Ah, I see now. You’re trying to prove to yourself. 

The sixth cut, one down and to the right, and then up in the same direction. At least I managed this one quickly. 

Or to her? 

The seventh cut, just like and not quite like the fourth and fifth, I manage in one motion, as the pain becomes more bearable. 

This won’t change anything, you know. You’re still in the exact same spot you were before. 

The eighth cut, a vertical line and a small vertical curve going to the right. 

You’re still a monster. 

I take a deep breath, to admire the word I’ve carved into my flesh. As blood begins to trickle off of them and down my arm, I take some twisted pride in what I’ve just done. 

I’ll never forget you, Chloe.

Never. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really happy to publish this, as this is my first ever fanfic, or organized piece of writing in general. Of course this is only the first chapter, and I have plans and am working on the next chapters. So, enjoy I guess. 
> 
> I would really like to thank Clarx for supporting me throughout the conception and writing of this story, for giving me the push(or continued pushes) I needed to write this, so I could show it to … anyone else.  
> You can find their work [Here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clarx/pseuds/Clarx).
> 
> Anyway, feedback is appreciated, thanks a lot for reading, and I can't wait to show you more!


End file.
